


Miscellaneous Oneshots

by lazywonderland



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywonderland/pseuds/lazywonderland
Summary: Oneshots written mostly on Tumblr and unposted as their own stories. Each individual chapter will contain trigger and content warnings. The chapter names are based on the trope to make it easier to find what you're looking for!
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 202





	1. power bottom draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: possessive draco
> 
>  **Rating:** E  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** power bottom draco, dom draco, dom harry, power struggle, mention of hypothetical infidelity, orgasm denial, light bondage  
>  **Word Count:** ~2,500

He’d never have let Draco do this normally — it’s hard for him, and not in that work-through-it-and-you’ll-be-better-for-it kind of hard, all it does is make him tense and angry — but he can see the slight mania in Draco’s eyes and the fear and desperation, and it’s all of that plus the hectic flush on his cheeks that convinces Harry not to fight it when Draco shoves him down onto the bed and points his wand and suddenly Harry’s wrists are bound to the headboard.

“Better?” says Harry drily. Draco’s jaw clenches and his eyes blaze. If he’d known how obvious he was, how clearly Harry could read all of his emotions on his face, maybe he would have gone to some trouble to take it down a notch. He tugs lightly at his bonds, testing them though he doesn’t plan to break them. He simply wants to determine whether he could if he wanted to. To his fascination, he’s not totally sure he could. They’re incredibly strong, which means there had been significant emotion behind the spell. “D’you feel like telling me what the fuck this is about yet?”

Draco doesn’t answer. He points his wand again, and then Harry’s clothes are gone. He can’t imagine a more vulnerable position to be in: tied up and naked. At one point in his life, the idea of Draco Malfoy seeing him this way would have been second only to Voldemort himself seeing him this way. Not anymore, of course.

Now all this does is make his cock twitch and start filling with blood.

“What’s with you?” he asks. Draco doesn’t answer again; he disrobes himself without magic, then slips off his shirt and trousers and climbs onto the bed, a knee on either side of one of Harry’s legs. He looks quite mad, and lucky for him he’s just fucking perfect enough that he makes madness into something ethereal. His hair is free from its usual product, tempting Harry’s bound hands with how soft it looks. The combination of helplessness and arousal makes his breathing shallow and loud, his chest rising and falling too obviously for his taste.

“Something wrong, Potter?” Draco purrs, fingers curling around the base of Harry’s cock, slick with magicked lube. He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing through his nose, but Draco only squeezes and he has to clench his jaw to keep in a noise. “You know, you couldn’t look more appealing if you were a six-course meal and I was starving.”

“Is that right?” Harry says. It’s strained slightly, and he lets out a hoarse laugh. He opens his eyes and meets Draco’s, doing everything in his power not to lift his hips into the constant, torturous slide of that perfect hand. “Keeping in mind, of course, that you’ve always been a bit of a slut for it I do have to say you look more ravenous than usual.”

Now Draco laughs, mockingly, and he speeds up his hand. He starts twisting his wrist at the top, palming over the sensitive, engorged head, and dipping his thumb into the slit like he’s trying to coax out more pre-come. He looks like he’s barely restraining himself from leaning over and using his mouth instead; he’s got a good and proper fetish for Harry’s cock, an obsession that rivals only his love of riling Harry up on purpose just to monopolise his attention. It only makes it more impressive that he hasn’t done it yet.

“Keep talking, Potter, I have all night. And I’ve always wondered how you’d look all worked up and edged past endurance.”

Something flutters in Harry’s stomach, a heady combination of shock and arousal and nerves. The look on Draco’s face, the implications of his words, they’re making Harry deeply uneasy as much as they’re turning him on.

“Is that your plan?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level. “You wanna watch me struggle?”

“Well that’s only part of it,” says Draco. He lets go of Harry’s cock, curved up against his stomach, thick and heavy with blood, and crawls up his body to press a series of kitten-soft kisses onto his neck. Harry closes his eyes again and breathes through his nose. There’s an instinct to resist that’s kicking in which he’s desperately fighting. He wants to know what the fuck is going on first before he decides to shut this down. Draco’s lips drag maddeningly up to his ear. “The other part is reminding you what you’re gonna spend the rest of your life missing if I ever catch you fucking around on me, Potter.”

Another pulse of shock rocks him. He stares up at Draco with his lips parted, confused at first until understanding catches up with him and his face flushes. 

“I see you’ve figured it out,” Draco says silkily. His hand goes back to Harry’s cock, still hard and throbbing, and now he bends and puts his lips to the head. He sucks lightly at it like a particularly good lolly, making Harry’s toes curl, ripping a half-mad groan from his throat.

“I dunno what you thought you saw,” Harry bites out, tugging unconsciously at his ties, “but I wasn’t planning on fucking Jenkins. But it’s good to know you’re keeping a jealous eye on me at work, love.”

Draco sits up and swipes his thumb over the wet and sensitive glans again. Harry loses himself for a moment and bucks his hips.

“Maybe you weren’t planning on it,” says Draco mildly. He traces his fingertips along the underside of Harry’s straining prick, dancing along the nerves, every vein engorged with blood, leading him along a knife’s edge towards a feeling of frighteningly unfamiliar vulnerability and desperation. “But you were thinking about it,” he coos. “Did you picture it, Harry? Pushing him against the wall face-first and filling him up with your cock?”

Harry’s head falls back against a pillow and he lifts his hips again, searching for friction. He’s so hard it’s beginning to hurt now and he’s slightly lightheaded from the loss of blood to his brain.

Draco’s hot, wet mouth engulfs him then, taking him down to the root so he can feel the throbbing head press just slightly into the tight channel past his uvula. His mouth falls open and he lifts his arse off the bed, trying to fuck Draco’s perfect throat, but he makes it difficult by always pulling back just enough to make it impossible. He’s actually shaking, muscles straining, as Draco works him at his own deliberately slow pace.

“Draco,” he rasps. His fists clench in their bonds. He _can_ come this way, it’s building with a terrible force in his stomach. But it’s building slowly, as if his body itself has allied itself with Draco in an effort to make him struggle and suffer, all for the harmless glances he’d been shooting Jenkins lately. “Fuck. I —”

“You what?” Draco goads him. He replaces his mouth with his hand again, sliding it leisurely through lube and his own spit and Harry’s pre-come, little spurts of it continuously dribbling down its turgid length. “Sounded suspiciously like you were about to say please …”

Harry grits his teeth and swallows back the begging noises threatening to burst out of him. More blood rushes to his prick, turning the head a worrying purple. He wonders in a slightly hysterical, half-insane way whether he could die from this. From needing to come this badly and not being allowed to. From refusing to beg for it, even when it hurts.

“Well,” says Draco as he releases him and climbs up to straddle his waist, positioning himself above Harry’s cock. It rubs against the cleft of Draco’s arse, teasing him with the possibility of all that tight, gripping heat, and Harry lets out a low moan just thinking about sinking inside of him, of all that friction that’s so close but so fucking far. “At least the Wizarding world can sleep soundly knowing their hero doesn’t easily give into torture.”

“Bully for them,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Now sit on my fucking cock before I decide to hex you.”

Draco laughs. His pink lips part tantalisingly; the long line of his throat glimmers with sweat and drives Harry to the very brink of fucking madness.

“Are empty threats usually effective in your experience?” Draco asks. He grinds himself along the length of Harry’s prick and lets the head catch on his hole, which he can tell is only loosely stretched. Which also means Draco’d been fingering himself before. 

Harry flicks his bound hand and Draco jumps, looking satisfyingly surprised for a moment. Even in spite of his predicament Harry manages a shit-eating grin. Hexes and jinxes are hardly effective done wandlessly but Harry’s rather adept at pulling off a decent Stinging Jinx.

“D’you think that’s a good idea?” Draco asks when he’s gathered himself. There’s a new flush on his cheeks, though, and it’s gorgeous. “Hexing me when I could easily leave you here hard and wanting?”

Harry opens his mouth to make another sarcastic remark (because he can’t fucking help it, even with his libido screaming out in agony for him to fucking leave it, just let Draco have this power trip) but before he can say anything Draco’s lining up and bares down until the head pushes through the ring of muscle — and he stops there. And Harry’s always been good at biting back vocalisations, an ability to stay quiet no matter what is a highly useful skill for an Auror, but when Draco stops and merely squeezes around the head of his cock he lets out an utterly tormented groan, bucking his hips only for Draco to lift up and away. 

“Fuck you!” Harry yells, tugging again at his ties and shouting at the futility of it. Draco’s watching this with glazed eyes and wet lips. “Fucking just — god, just sit on my cock, you fucking inbred little cocksucker!”

And Draco laughs, loudly. He bends and touches his lips to Harry’s sweaty forehead, then to his mouth, then his damp and heaving chest and over his stomach and finally delivers a few more chaste kisses to the skin above his pubic hair. Harry’s cock bobs next to his face, pulsing and throbbing and aching. Draco drags his tongue up the side of it and then presses his lips to the head, suckling gently, torturing Harry on purpose. And Harry, he’s not actually sure how much more of this he can take. His arms are aching now. His cock feels _too_ engorged with blood, tight and hard and painful. He physically can’t stop himself from bucking up against Draco’s mouth.

He groans in frustration when Draco pulls off again but then he’s sliding Harry’s cock back into his arse, and not just the head this time. He sinks all the way down, enveloping Harry in all that throbbing, gorgeous heat, and he squeezes so perfectly around him, and Harry cries out and lifts his hips and tries to fight his restraints.

“Not thinking about Jenkins, are you?” Draco says lightly. He rocks his hips a little and Harry whimpers. He can’t remember if he’s ever heard himself whimper like that before.

“Fuck no,” he gasps out. “Just you.”

“Just me,” Draco repeats. He lifts himself up, pauses, and then sinks back down. He hands go to Harry’s chest and he does it again, again, again, fucking himself properly now and Harry can see he’s beginning to lose himself to the sensations finally. That glazed look is back in his eyes and there’s sweat beading at his hairline. “Nobody else could do this to you, Potter.”

Harry would have agreed to anything at this point but he still means it when he nods frantically, beyond caring now that he’s at a major disadvantage, that Draco has successfully taken him apart the way he’s so used to doing.

He’s about to come when Draco stops moving again, seated fully on his lap. Harry lets out a string of curses and creates bruises on his wrists where he strains and wrenches madly against the silky material binding them. 

“Draco, please,” he hears himself say. It hardly even sounds like him. “Please, fuck, _please_ , I need — I need to come …”

“I know,” Draco coos. He bends forwards again and kisses him, soft and languid and a little mocking, and Harry’s cock twitches inside of him. “And I’ll let you. But you have to do the rest yourself.”

“What?” Harry asks deliriously. Draco lifts up until just the head is still being squeezed inside his tight heat, and Harry gets the message. “God,” he breathes, even as he bends his knees and plants his feet flat on the mattress, his hand trying of their own accord to reach for Draco’s hips, but they can’t. “You’re so fucking obnoxious.”

Draco laughs until Harry thrust brutally up into him, and then he’s moaning instead, fingers curling against Harry’s chest. Harry has no way of changing angles, of trying to hit Draco’s prostate or make him scream, so instead he focuses on his own pleasure, because really, at this point, it’s what he deserves. He slams up into him over and over, shaking the bed, making his thighs scream with the effort, and by the time he feels his orgasm approaching his dripping with sweat and his shoulders are killing him and he knows there must be terrible bruises on his wrists.

“That’s it,” Draco goads him. His own cock is bobbing precariously above Harry’s stomach, red and swollen and dribbling pre-come out of the slit. “Put your fucking back into it, Potter, fuck me like you mean it.”

Harry lets out a tortured moan and puts his fucking back into it. He feels Draco’s body tense up and clench around him and then release, nails digging into Harry’s skin, and come covers both their chests and hits Harry’s chin.

The soft, exquisite noises Draco makes push Harry past the edge himself and he comes inside of Draco with his veins thrumming; he fucks madly up into him until his come is leaking out around his cock and still he keeps going, sliding through all that slick, working himself until his shaking and weak and can hardly move. Draco takes over again, rocking on top of him, milking him of every last shudder and shiver and moan. 

He lies there panting and limbless, and when Draco releases his bonds, his arms fall to his sides and he groans at the soreness of his muscles.

Draco’s kissing him then, drawing his lips apart and ravaging his mouth with his tongue. Eventually Harry lifts one of his aching arms and puts a hand on his cheek, thumb grazing smooth skin.

After a minute and then two and then three, Harry finally mutters, “You didn’t really think I’d sleep with Jenkins, did you?”

Draco draws back and pushes some of his hair out of his face, considering Harry from his place straddling his hips.

“I’m still figuring you out,” he says after some consideration. Harry lifts both eyebrows.

“We’ve been together two and a half years.”

“Yeah,” Draco says. He lifts up and off of Harry, making him hiss. “And I’m still figuring you out, Potter.”

“Right back at you,” Harry says drily. He loves the way it makes Draco grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	2. the watch gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Cielia's incredible art than can be found [here](https://fae-vorite.tumblr.com/post/632336298311581696)!
> 
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** fluff and a little bit of angst  
>  **Word Count:** ~2,400

Granger looks vaguely suspicious when she steps into the garden, but to her credit, she’s clearly trying not to let it show. His past self would have assumed this was a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security; his present self, which has been locked up in the manor for two straight months, and whose only company has been Pansy, Harry, Weasley, Granger, and some hard-arsed Ministry officials, knows better. Granger is not sneaky; she is not mistrustful; she is clever and she is empathetic and from what he’s gathered, she is also forgiving. Weasley is only just recently beginning to warm up to him, but Granger had done so from the moment she learned he and Harry were together.

“I really appreciate you coming,” Draco says as he leads her to a small wrought iron fleur-de-lis table near some of the more pungent flower beds. He and his mother had taken tea out here times beyond number in his childhood, almost always without his father. “I know you’ve been up to your ears working on that new assignment you won’t tell us anything about.”

The mention of her current project sets a fire alight in Granger’s eyes. Draco is coming round to the realisation that he’s rather fond of that look. She’s a remarkable person, actually.

“It’s no problem,” she tells him earnestly. “I’m glad to take a bit of a break; sometimes it has to be forced on me or I’ll never do it. Then I have to listen to Ron lecture me about my mental health.” It’s said with a sigh but there’s an unmistakable fondness in her expression. “You said you needed a favour?”

“I did. I do.” He takes a pause in order to pour tea for both of them and collect his thoughts. He watches as Granger drops two lumps of sugar into hers and skips the milk. He uses neither for his own. Harry uses obscene amounts of both; the thought makes Draco smile.

“Draco, does it have to do with Harry?” she says abruptly. Draco pauses with his cup in the air and blinks at her. “I thought so,” she goes on. “He hasn’t said it but I know you two have been fighting again. I can always tell because that truly boundless sarcasm of his reaches new heights, it’s so annoying. It gets to the point I can’t figure out when he’s being serious.” There’s thunder in her expression suddenly and Draco forces himself not to laugh. “D’you know he had dinner with Ron and me the other night and I asked him if he’d done anything really interesting in training yet, because he’s mostly been so bored with it lately, you know? And he tells me yes, something interesting finally happened, that two of the other trainees propositioned him for a threesome and he had to turn them down, and it wasn’t until the next day when I brought it up again that he told me he was joking, like I should’ve known. I mean, it’s out of control.”

The story for some reason makes Draco’s heart hurt, and after a moment he realises it’s because he misses Harry. Sure, he can be so fucking stubborn it’s painful, and his unwavering devotion to his own moral code is about as arrogant as you can get, and yeah, it’s sickening to know how humble he is, how much he despises the extra attention he gets in his Auror program, but god, Draco’s never been so in love with anyone. He even thinks maybe he loves Harry because of these things.

And not that he’s going to tell Granger this, but his sense of humour is really quite spot on.

“Right,” says Draco, after sipping his tea and making certain he won’t give away his amusement, “well … yes, it’s about that.” And now his cheeks heat, because they’ve come to the point. The watches are in an inside pocket of his robes and they feel heavier suddenly. He takes them out and places them on the table between them. Granger’s eyebrows furrow and she reaches out to grab one and look at it.

“These are Muggle watches,” is her diagnosis after half a second. Draco nods.

“Yes,” he says. “I gave one of my father’s rings to the Auror who came to check on me the other day and asked him to get these for me. It’s worth a fortune, so he was amenable to the errand.”

Granger says nothing. She only watches him, listening, mind working.

“Before the manor’s … occupation,” he says, “we had this clock in the drawing room. It was destroyed. There were different locations written where the numbers usually go. ‘Home’ and ‘work’ and ‘school,’ that sort of thing.”

“You had one of those?” Granger gasps suddenly. Draco’s taken aback.

“What?”

“The Weasleys have one,” she tells him, and his eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “The hands, they have the names of your family, right?” And before Draco can answer, her formidable brain has already made the leap and figured him out: “You want to charm these?” She looks again at the watch she’s holding, deep in thought. And then she’s glancing at him again, her expression changing. It’s so soft, so knowing, that Draco has to look away. “So you know he’s safe,” she says quietly. “So you can feel closer to him.”

The drawback of having access to Granger’s soaring intellect is that it comes attached to her weirdly adept people-reading skills. He’d known she would see right through him, and so she has.

“Can you do it?” he asks. He forces himself to keep eye contact with her; it’s uncomfortable to reveal the depth of his feelings for Harry, but he’s not ashamed of it, and he won’t act like he is. “I figured — you’re an Unspeakable — you might know of some way …”

“I’ll look into it,” she says. There’s a bit of a smile on her face that tells Draco she has something up her sleeve. For the first time in a long time, it feels like being with a new friend.

*

He hasn’t been to the manor in almost a week and the guilt is eating holes in his will to wake up and go about his business every day. He misses Draco in the worst way: how he rolls his eyes and smirks when Harry makes sarcastic comments; how his hair smells like coconut, but in an expensive way; how he gives and gives and gives of himself endlessly when Harry has broken him down to that primal place where he loses all of the thorns he grew around his father. 

It had been a terrible fight, that’s why. He simply hasn’t been able to face Draco yet out of shame. He needs to apologise — wants to apologise — but it’s difficult figuring out how. The right words don’t come to him easily and he’s resisted asking Hermione for help, because he feels that he needs to do it himself. 

When Draco opens the front door Harry wants to say something really profound, something that really flays the soul and leaves the listener feeling raw and giddy. What he says is “Hi.”

“Hi,” Draco says back. He looks as he always does: effortlessly put-together, as if he’ll be in a meeting later instead of padding around his family’s grotesquely enormous home by himself. There are signs of his distress, though. Signs Harry has learned to pick up on over the last two months. Draco’s chapped lower lip is the biggest giveaway: he’s been chewing on it. 

“Can I come in?”

Draco studies him for a few moments and Harry burns with curiosity over what he’s thinking. Then he says, “Okay,” and he turns around.

He leads Harry to the sitting room; they’re usually in his bedroom or the kitchen, but never the drawing room. It’s gone unspoken, the reason why it’s avoided, because they all know.

Draco takes a seat on a sofa, and Harry, after some deliberation, sits next to him. Not too close, not enough to be presumptuous, but enough so Draco can sense how bad he feels. How guilty. How much he loves him, even after such a short time together. The thing is, it’s felt like ten years compressed into two months. They’ve fought and fucked and delved into each other’s minds, divulged secrets into each other’s mouths like whispered oaths; he feels sometimes as if he’s somehow reached right inside of Draco’s body and felt his living organs, caressed his fingertips along every muscle and artery and blood cell and unifying atom, learned the ridges of his lungs and the shape of his beating heart. He feels as if he knows Draco better than he’s ever known anybody in his life, better than he knows himself, maybe. And he thinks that Draco definitely knows him better than he knows himself. In two months they have become a part of one another. 

“Harry —”

“Wait,” Harry cuts him off. “Let me go first.”

Draco looks contemplative, then nods slowly.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” Harry shakes his head and rubs his palm over his cheek, rough with almost a week’s worth of stubble. “I just … I shouldn’t have said any of it. I’ve been stressed with this case they’ve been having us help out with in training, they’re so fucking – there’s just all this protocol, all this extra shit we have to do especially because we’re trainees and I — the point is, it started irritating me having to recount it again for you every time I came over, and it made me feel … weird, you know, having you be worried about me, and I just …” He sighs. His hand goes to Draco’s leg, which he doesn’t move. Harry smiles a little. “It was really selfish to have yelled at you about it. I know you’re going fucking crazy in here not being able to leave or send owls or anything, I could’ve been a bit more compassionate. I’m really sorry, Draco.”

To his immense surprise, Draco leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. Harry catches him before he can get too far and pulls him back in for a real one. Even when their lips part and Draco’s tongue slides into his mouth it stays slow and sweet, and Harry rubs his thumb obsessively over the scar on Draco’s neck that starts just below the jaw and curves down over his throat. He used to cover it up, but Harry convinced him to stop doing it. He loves every last one of them, and they’re numerous, littering his whole torso and cutting across his right bicep in one place.

“I’m sorry too,” Draco says, pulling back a little and putting a hand on Harry’s chest. “You’re allowed to not feel like talking sometimes. It’s like you said, I just go a little mental in here, especially knowing I have another four months to go. And I do worry about you, not because I think you can’t handle any of it, I know you can, just because … I don’t know, shit happens, and I really …” Draco drops his eyes and his hand curls into Harry’s jumper. “I really couldn’t bear to lose you.”

It sounds closer to ‘I love you’ than Draco’s ever gotten to saying and it gives Harry chills to hear it. He swoops in to kiss him again but Draco stops him before he can, meeting his eyes again.

“Hang on,” he says. His cheeks have taken on a deeper red colour. “I … have something for you.”

Harry frowns. “You _have_ something for me?”

“Yeah.” Draco reaches into a pocket of his robes and pulls out two watches. They look Muggle-made until Draco hands him one, and Harry can actually feel his heart flutter over a beat as he sees the words written around the edges.

“This is …” He feels rather speechless and can’t stop looking at it. It’s just like the one at the Weasleys’ house, except there’s just the one hand and Harry can guess who it’s connected to. There are four words around the circumference: ‘HOME,’ ‘OFFICE,’ ‘PANSY’S,’ and ‘MUM’S.’ What strikes him along with everything else about it is the idea that when Draco was having this done, it was with the hopeful thought in mind that he would one day be at work again, visiting Pansy, living somewhere else and visiting his mother at home.

“Yours tells you where I am,” he says unnecessarily. “And mine tells me where you are. I wanted to feel more connected to you, I guess. It’s not to keep an eye on you or anything. Do you … like it? I can always —”

Harry kisses him, and he loves it when he can feel Draco start to smile.

“It’s brilliant,” he says. “You’re so fucking brilliant, Draco. Here, help me put it on.”

He holds out his wrist and lets Draco put it on manually, the Muggle way, which Harry likes. Then he does Draco’s, and he just looks at them for a while. His is pointing towards ‘HOME,’ just as it will be for the next four months. Harry’s says ‘TRAVELLING.’ 

“Will you stay tonight?” Draco asks eventually. It’s a silly question that Harry answers with a snort and then another kiss.

Up in his bedroom, Draco throws on one of Harry’s Weasley jumpers with a big ‘H’ on it that he’d stolen several weeks ago, which Harry has never protested. Draco wearing his jumper and nothing else is decidedly all right with him. He himself merely pulls off his jeans before climbing into bed with Draco and his ridiculously endearing Snitch-covered sheets. He pulls him in for a kiss immediately that keeps a slow pace like before. His toes curl and his cock twitches in interest as he feels the texture of Draco’s chapped lip and reminds himself what the back of his teeth taste like. Draco slips a hand beneath his hoodie and plays with the trail of hair he finds above Harry’s boxers.

In spite of both their arousal it tapers off to soft pecks and Draco’s hand finds its way to Harry’s hair instead where he begins playing with it. Harry reaches for Draco’s wrist and feels the watch there, then looks at his own. He feels more content and relaxed than he has in a week.

“You know,” he says finally, whispering it in the dim light cast by dozens of candles, “one day ‘home’ will mean the same place for both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	3. guitar harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: guitar playing!harry  
> Art by the wonderful [fae-vorite](https://www.tumblr.com/safe-mode?url=https%3A%2F%2Ffae-vorite.tumblr.com%2F)
> 
>  **Rating:** E  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** guitar harry, top harry, bottom draco, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, hand/finger kink  
>  **Word Count:** ~2,000

“I’m sorry, he _what_?”

“Yeah, he’s really good,” said Weasley. He nodded towards the acoustic guitar hanging on the wall; Draco had taken notice of it the first time he’d seen Harry’s flat but never paid it much mind after that, taking it for decoration, or perhaps an unused gift. “He’ll play if you ask him. He doesn’t like showing off.”

“Which is silly,” Granger said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve told him, just because he’s good at it doesn’t make it showing off. I wish he’d play for people more often.”

“He has literally never mentioned this to me.” He felt utterly stunned and _completely_ cheated. He tried to picture it and couldn’t. “How long’s he been playing?”

“Picked it up after the war. It was kind of funny, actually –” Weasley started saying, but Harry came back into the room – still pulling his shirt on – and he broke off, giving Draco a significant look that told him to bring it up.

“Harry,” said Draco imperiously, to which he received two raised eyebrows as Harry fell into his favourite armchair and pushed a hand through his still-damp curls. Draco matched his expression and glanced at the guitar. Harry followed his gaze, looking genuinely confused.

“What, what is it?”

“When were you going to tell me you play?”

“What, guitar?”

“Yes, _guitar_.”

He shrugged and grabbed for one of the beers on the table, wandlessly magicking the cap off. “I dunno. When it came up, I guess.”

“The way your friends tell it you’re quite good.”

Harry gave Weasley and then Granger a sour look; both of them gave it right back to him, which was, admittedly, amusing.

“I can play all right,” he said vaguely, and took a swig of his drink. It did make some sort of sense, now Draco thought about it – the tips of Harry’s fingers were far, _far_ too calloused to have been just from casual Quidditch and Auror training. 

“You know, Harry, it actually comes off as _more_ pretentious when you act like this,” said Granger. Weasley snorted. Harry glared at her. “Just play for him, won’t you? And us too – it’s been ages.”

“Yeah, what’s that Muggle song you play sometimes that I like?” said Weasley.

“I dunno, I’ve played a lot of Muggle songs.”

“He means Wonderwall, Harry,” said Granger, grinning. Harry finally smiled too, and although their little Muggle joke was lost on Weasley and himself he was glad to see that it had apparently been the prodding Harry needed to give in. He set his beer back down and went to get the guitar; something about the way he threw the thin and fraying strap over his head, the way his hands went effortlessly to their places, was unexpectedly attractive. The left one curled easily around the neck of the instrument, heavily-roughened fingers finding their odd positions on the strings, something Draco had always thought looked very painful.

He plucked a few chords and then began fiddling with the knobs at the head of the guitar, tuning it in what was clearly the Muggle fashion, which against his will left Draco completely fascinated. Having no musical inclination himself, he could make nothing of the process except that Harry apparently heard the discordant notes in there well enough to be able to fix them, and finally when he brought his thumb down across all six strings it sounded as sweet and clear as if it had been done by magic.

“Course he likes Wonderwall,” Harry said to Granger even as he began playing, fingers shifting and moving and contorting to create the notes while he strummed softly, effortlessly, and the music crawled over Draco’s skin and inside of him. “I remember Dudley listening to it, like, what … summer before sixth year? On the radio constantly.”

“Sounds about right,” said Granger. 

Draco had stopped paying attention to what they were saying, though. Either because the music itself had something haunting about its melody or because it was Harry playing it, or perhaps a combination of both, Draco felt a pit of emotion form in his chest to round off the edges of his growing arousal.

And then he started singing, and Draco swallowed very hard. Granger dropped a head onto Weasley’s shoulder and watched with a tender expression, Weasley similarly enamored. Harry had his eyes on his hands for the most part, closing them a few times throughout, looking as comfortable now as he did on a broomstick.

Only three months of official dating had not prepared Draco for the flood of emotions he now felt, yet the most pressing matter had become the semi trapped uncomfortably in his trousers. He wanted those talented fingers in his mouth, to feel the callouses on his tongue and taste Harry on them; he wanted to feel them on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and hip bones, to have them buried so deeply in his arse that he forgot where he ended and Harry began. 

Of course, he had to keep this to himself for the next hour, until he was able to get Granger and Weasley out of the flat. And once he _did_ , he didn’t bother dragging Harry to his bedroom – Draco pushed him up against the front door that had just closed behind his friends and hauled him into a kiss that he felt Harry grinning into.

“I _thought_ you seemed tetchy,” he muttered, hands dropping to Draco’s hips. “Oasis really does it for you, huh?”

“What the hell is oasis?”

“The band who does the song.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s the band who does it for me.” He kissed Harry again, maybe a little too hungrily, and dug a fist into his side when he started laughing. “Shut up, why the hell didn’t you ever tell me you played?”

Harry pulled his head back, looking at Draco with an arched brow and an infuriating smirk. 

“What do you mean, _ever_? We’ve only been together three months, it didn’t come up.”

“God,” Draco muttered, and now he reached down and pressed his palm against Harry’s cock, pleased to feel how hard he was in spite of his ruthless teasing. “You’re so annoying.”

“Well if I’d known how randy it would make you I might’ve played for you a long time ago.”

Having had quite enough of Harry’s particularly sarcastic brand of wit, he ignored this last and reached for one of his hands, removing it from his own hip and bringing it to his lips. It was extremely satisfying to watch the smirk disappear from Harry’s face when he sucked one of his fingers into his mouth. 

“Bit fetish-y, isn’t this?” Harry said breathily, eyes wide as he watched, looking half amused and half awed. In retaliation, Draco took another finger into his mouth and slid his tongue between them, tasting soap and salt, feeling the callouses on the tips of his fingers and letting that sensation grip his insides like an iron fist. “Jesus Christ,” Harry groaned; his free hand went to Draco’s jaw, holding him steady, and with a truly outstanding audacity began fucking Draco’s mouth with his fingers.

They dipped bluntly past his uvula, scraping the back of his throat so he gagged around their intrusion. Saliva built with an excessive speed that had it drooling out of the corners of his lips and coating Harry’s knuckles. Draco closed his eyes and let it happen, opening his throat against the relentless assault and curling his hands in Harry’s shirt just to steady himself. 

They were gone too soon and Harry’s mouth replaced them, much gentler but still with a tangible sense of urgency about it.

When he broke away, he said against Draco’s lips, “Like my fingers, do you?”

Draco merely nodded, feeling their wetness against his cheek. 

“Then turn around,” said Harry, “and I’ll fuck you with them.”

Draco let out a soft, embarrassing whimper and let Harry spin them around and press him against the door, cheek-first. He undid his flies himself and Harry tugged them down his legs and off his feet, allowing Draco to spread them slightly. Harry’s fingers were there immediately, sliding slick between his cheeks and over his hole. The memory of Harry’s hands on the guitar was still so fresh, his fingers changing chords effortlessly, sacrificing them to blisters and callouses and roughened skin for the music they created, and Draco closed his eyes against a fresh wave of arousal and another pang of emotion.

“You really are incredible,” said Draco, biting back a moan as two of those dexterous fingers slipped inside of him. Harry fucked him with them slowly, carefully, seeking out his prostate and angling for it each time once he’d found it. Draco turned his face to press his forehead against the door, eyes still closed, nails scraping wood. “And I like that song.”

“It’s a good one,” Harry agreed. His hot breath caressed the back of Draco’s neck, fingers pumping, his other hand back at Draco’s waist. “I have a million more I’d love to show you.”

Draco didn’t bother trying to find his voice again: instead he pushed back against Harry’s driving fingers, everything that wasn’t the relentless stabbing against his prostate driven from his mind. His neglected cock slapped against the door with every thrust, the red and irritated head dripping pre-come against the wood. Only half conscious of the decision to do so, he wrapped his hand around it and pulled and squeezed and zeroed in on the bursts of pleasure radiating outwards from inside his body until it all spilled over and he came in great pulses, gasping for breath while Harry kept at it. 

The fingers slowed as he reached his peak and began coming down but they didn’t stop, nor was his prostate given much of a break. Harry reinforced his grip on Draco’s waist and kept pumping, a steadier rhythm that nevertheless rubbed and prodded at that little bundle, making his nerves tingle and fizzle and scream out their overstimulation.

“Harry,” he said weakly, knees buckling. “Please …”

It could have been comical the way Harry followed his movement as he slid down the door to the ground, except it wasn’t. It was infuriating, actually, and felt at once like more than he could possibly handle and exactly what he needed. His forehead and his hands went back to the wood, bracing himself as Harry, kneeling behind him, continued fucking his beautiful, merciless fingers and stimulating Draco’s overworked prostate. 

He pushed a third one in alongside the other two and Draco was shocked to feel a hot tear leak out of the corner of his eye. Harry crooked them expertly, with all the confidence and surety of someone who had done this a million times, could do it in their sleep, as if it was not the guitar strings but Draco’s body he was strumming now, an instrument fine-tuned to his own particular cadence and rhythm, which he and no one else could play quite right.

Lips parted, hot breath echoing off the door and back into his face, Draco allowed himself to be taken apart with the same ferocious intensity he’d seen Harry use on the guitar. Each stroke brought him back to full hardness, each stab against his prostate made his nerves sing a tormented chorus, drowning out the pain of the wooden floor against his bare knees. 

“Shit,” Draco choked out, “I’m gonna come again …”

“Well that’s the idea,” said Harry. His voice was full of that same witty and well-meaning sarcasm Draco liked so much, even when it made him feel like punching him. Snatches of the song came back to him, Harry’s voice when he sang it, the expert shifting of his fingers where they pressed and plucked at the strings like he was making love to them. It was all so very _much_. 

He came a second time without even bothering to touch his cock, because he just didn’t fucking need it. His body thrummed and vibrated like a snapped rubber band while Harry coaxed him along his high and back down again. When he finally pulled his fingers out he leant forward over Draco’s back and kissed the side of his neck, then the corner of his jaw. 

“You know you make much lovelier sounds than the guitar, just so we’re clear,” he said, and Draco, with what strength he had left, shoved Harry and watched him fall sideways laughing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	4. the original himbo!harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: himbo!harry  
> Art by the amazing [@fae-vorite](https://www.tumblr.com/safe-mode?url=https%3A%2F%2Ffae-vorite.tumblr.com%2F).
> 
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** himbo harry, thirsty draco, crack, ooc harry  
>  **Word Count:** ~750

“Can I get two cranberry vodkas?”

“Vodka cranberries,” grunted the surly bartender, unmoving. Harry’s eyebrows came together, obviously confused. Draco sighed and tried not to sound too fond.

“No,” said Harry. “Cranberry vodkas, I mean. The flavoured kind.”

“Harry,” said Draco, putting a hand on his arm, “it’s not flavoured vodka. It’s vodka and cranberry juice, he just means it’s typically called –” But he stopped trying, because Harry had an eyebrow raised and looked unimpressed with the explanation. He turned to the bartender. “Two vodka cranberries. Thank you.”

“What’s the difference?” Harry said when the man behind the bar had turned away to get their drinks. Had they been at a wizarding pub this wouldn’t have happened – people didn’t talk to Harry that way. This Muggle clearly just thought he was a moron, which might have been true in a number of ways but it was always so _very_ endearing.

“That’s just what it’s called,” Draco explained, grinning. He touched a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “People are quite touchy about terminology.”

“Whatever,” said Harry. “I thought it was flavoured vodka, that makes more sense.”

“No, honey,” said Draco kindly. “It’s cranberry juice, that’s why it’s red.” He took the drinks as Harry passed the bartender his Muggle money, telling him to keep the change to pay for a couple girls’ drinks that were ordering. They giggled and fluttered their lashes at him, not knowing he had no interest, he was just _Harry_ , being an absolute gentleman came naturally to him.

They took their drinks outside, Draco privately hoping the cool autumn air would lower his body temperature a little bit (Harry’s shameless idiocy always, unfailingly, made him hot under the collar, he didn’t for the life of him know why), and no sooner had Harry pulled out a cigarette than he’d stuck it absent-mindedly in his mouth the wrong way and lit the filter.

“Fuck, shit,” Harry muttered, plucking it out from between his lips and, with a roll of his eyes, chucking it perfectly into a bin some ten feet away. “Why do I do that every time?”

Draco, half-hard, watched him light another and then took it when Harry offered it to him. He lit another for himself, looking completely, mind-meltingly hot for no reason at all as he checked to make sure he was doing it the right way.

“Oi, could we bum a couple of those?” a woman asked, the high trill of her voice indicating she was properly sloshed.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” said Harry, hurrying to take the last two out of his pack and handing them to the woman and her friend. He then used his little Muggle contraption to light both of them up, oblivious to the way they looked at him with hungry eyes.

“Thanks so much,” the woman’s friend said, but when Harry only gave them a charming little smile and nod before turning back to Draco they took the hint and walked off, looking slightly crestfallen. Draco clenched his teeth and reminded himself he was _not_ allowed to drag Harry into a bathroom stall to ravish him.

“I was thinking for Ron’s birthday,” said Harry, looking at once moronic and attractive holding his cigarette with his thumb and index finger like it was a joint, “he’s always threatening to eat his body weight in things. I wanna get him, like … I dunno, his body weight in Chocolate Frogs or something. How would we calculate, like, how much his body weight would be in Chocolate Frogs?”

Draco took a moment to suck in a crisping lungful of smoke, telling himself again, over and over, he couldn’t drag Harry into the loos, he couldn’t do that, it was illegal …

“Do you have any idea?” Harry pressed. “Maybe I should just ask Hermione.”

“Harry,” Draco said, stubbing out his cigarette. “D’you know how much Ron weighs?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know how much he weighs in Chocolate Frogs,” he said, taking Harry’s cigarette and putting that out too. Harry looked at him, confused, as Draco took his hand, feeling very resigned, and began leading Harry towards the bathrooms.

“Wait, what?” Harry said, and then, “Where are we going?”

Draco shoved him into the bathroom and manually did the lock.

“There’s no calculation, Harry,” said Draco. He pushed him back against a wall and pulled open the zipper of his windbreaker. Harry looked more bemused than ever. “Whatever his weight is, that’s also his weight in Chocolate Frogs.”

And finally understanding dawned in Harry’s eyes. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking excited. “Right, yeah, that makes sense!”

“God, you’re so dumb,” Draco muttered, and started fumbling with his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	5. harry's scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday drabble for [loveglowsinthedark](https://l0vegl0wsinthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** fluff, pillow talk, scars, teeniest angst  
>  **Word Count:** ~1,500

Most scars, like the ones on Draco’s chest, fade eventually to white. Harry’s is different, though — its lines are thin and imprecise and faintly pink against his dark skin, starting at his hairline and branching out into hectic patterns that take up half his forehead like a bolt of lightning. 

Most scars, like Draco’s, are raised but smooth to the touch. Harry’s is different in this way as well — its jagged lines are a little bit rough against the pads of Draco’s fingers, distinct in their shape. Appropriate, perhaps. It’s where he was once touched by a curse that should have killed him.

Draco’s fascination is something of which he is very much aware, but has never been able to put into words. Not ones that make sense, anyway. All he knows is that to him, like to the rest of the world, Harry’s scar has taken on a legendary sort of significance, and it gives Draco the chills just to look at it, and to know what it is. What it _means_.

Harry had told him once that he’s a light sleeper because of the Muggle family who raised him. Draco had seen the proof of this early on in their relationship, when they had first begun using Harry’s Invisibility Cloak to sneak into one another’s beds at night. Harry would wake at the slightest provocation, from the most minor shift of Draco’s leg, or a warm breath on his skin.

Nearly eight months later, this isn’t the case any longer.

Harry sleeps now. Deeply. His body has finally learned it doesn’t need to be on high alert anymore, and his mind is healing, little by little, letting him find peace for perhaps the first time in his life. On one or two occasions, Draco swears he’s heard Harry laughing in his sleep.

These days, when he wakes up first, he has time to look. And he _does_ look — obsessively, even. He traces the lines of that beautiful, terrifying scar with the pads of his fingers, and commits the shapes to memory, and knows that he could draw it with his eyes closed if he wanted to.

This morning, Harry doesn’t wake up until Draco kisses him. It’s a soft brush of lips, a delicate gesture that exists only within the confines of their bed.

Harry’s eyes are greenest when he’s just woken up. They are completely unguarded and so vivid they shouldn’t be real. Draco’s seen pictures of Harry’s mother, knows he’s supposed to have gotten that colour from her, but thinks privately that no one who’s ever lived could have exactly the same eyes as Harry. They are precisely the same shade of green as the Killing Curse, and Draco thinks sometimes that maybe that’s not a coincidence.

Usually when Draco wakes him up, Harry gives him one of those charmingly loose grins and says something stupid like “good morning, love” or “how did you sleep?”.

This morning, the smile is different. It’s thoughtful, and Draco thinks that perhaps Harry can tell he’s spent the last half hour in deep contemplation of their relationship. The other difference is that he doesn’t say anything — he watches Draco silently, almost as though he’s getting more this way than if he were to ask.

“Good morning,” Draco says finally, when the silence stretches on too long, and he can no longer maintain eye contact.

Harry’s good at that: eye contact. Maybe because he’s not afraid of his feelings.

Sometimes Draco wonders whether Harry’s afraid of anything at all.

Harry doesn’t answer, though — slowly, like he expects no resistance anyway, he flips Draco onto his back and traps him between sturdy arms. His hair is an atrocity, thick black strands of it falling in his face or sticking up at bizarre angles on the back of his head.

He is without a doubt the most beautiful man Draco has ever seen.

“All I said was good morning, heathen,” he says. Harry’s smile grows. “Isn’t it early for the asserting-your-dominance routine? I’ve only just woken up.”

“You’ve been up for a while,” Harry says. Draco narrows his eyes and knocks the side of his fist into Harry’s bicep.

“Cretin,” he says. “How long have _you_ been awake?”

“I was in and out for the last hour.”

Draco splutters, going instantly red. It’s not as though he thinks Harry doesn’t know he has a bit of a fascination with his scar, because he _does_ know. It’s just that he’s never questioned Draco about it, he’s always just sort of … pretended not to notice. And for that, Draco has always been grateful, because _really_. It’s just a scar.

“It felt nice,” Harry says, and doesn’t have to clarify, because Draco knows he’s talking about his scar. His face has gone soft, like he’s already figured out what Draco’s thinking. Perhaps he has, at that. “I don’t usually like when people touch it.”

“I know you don’t.” Draco’s throat clicks when he swallows. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I don’t mind when you do,” Harry says gently. “Just tell me why you like it.”

Draco scowls. Harry has a knack for putting him on the spot, probably because he’s figured out it’s the only way to get Draco to talk. What he doesn’t know is that those preposterously green eyes usually have a lot to do with loosening Draco’s tongue.

Before he can answer, Harry leans down and kisses him, slow and soft and sweet, and he pulls back just as Draco gets his hands on Harry’s face and opens his mouth.

“Tell me,” Harry says again.

“I don’t _know_.” Draco huffs out a frustrated breath. “I think it looks nice. The … design of it, you know? It’s pretty.” The blush from his face has reached his neck.

“You used to say it was ugly.”

“I was a child,” Draco says tightly. “I don’t think it’s ugly. I think it’s …” He lifts a hand, skims his fingers across the scar. “It’s intricate. And beautiful. And it’s, y’know … it’s a symbol.”

Harry’s eyebrows draw together. He wasn’t expecting this.

“What do you mean, a symbol?”

“A symbol,” he says again, and shrugs. “Of hope. For the Wizarding world. As far as scars go, this one’s pretty legendary, Potter.” And even as Harry rolls his eyes good-naturedly, an emotion Draco often tries to repress pops into existence with all the subtlety of an exploding Erumpent horn. His next words come out quiet and vaguely unsteady: “It’s just crazy to me sometimes that it’s you, I guess.”

Harry’s hand has migrated to Draco’s waist, and his fingers are delightfully warm where he’s snaked them under Draco’s shirt.

“That what’s me?”

“That it’s _you_ , Potter,” Draco says, hiding his rampant emotions beneath a flimsy facade of irritation. “In bed with me. _Touching_ me. You’re the hero of the age, a living, breathing symbol of hope, and for some reason you want _me_?” He clicks his teeth shut, glowing with embarrassment. “ _That’s_ why your scar fascinates me. Okay? Because it reminds me it’s _you_.”

For a moment, Harry doesn’t do anything. He just looks down at Draco, eyebrows furrowed, thinking deeply. When he does finally move, it’s to wrap his fingers around the back of Draco’s neck and pull him into a kiss that’s slow and yet anything but soft. It sends tendrils of fire creeping along Draco’s veins, sparking his nerve-endings and turning his skin into goose flesh.

“I love you,” Harry says, breaking from his mouth to trail his lips down the line of Draco’s jaw. Then he pulls back entirely, and his hand is large enough that when he cups Draco’s cheek, it covers the whole side of his face. “I love you more than I know how to put into words, more than I can figure out how to conceptualize to try and explain it to you. I don’t care who I am to anybody else. Of _course_ I’m here.”

“You might not feel that way one day,” he tries to joke, but it comes out sounding weak and, worst of all, truthful. His insecurities are, for the moment, spelled out on his forehead. “I have to enjoy you while you’re here. While it _is_ you.”

“It’s _always_ going to be me,” Harry says. His voice has dropped a register. He leans down again, and this time he kisses the apple of Draco’s cheek. “You’d better get used to the idea, because I _am_ going to ask you to marry me one day.”

Draco’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat, and Harry laughs.

“Don’t joke about things like that!” Draco scoffs, swatting Harry’s arm.

“I have never been so completely serious about something in my life,” Harry says, laughing and catching Draco’s wrist on his next swipe. “You’ll have plenty of time to get sick of me.”

Draco furiously continues fighting back any telltale sighs of emotion on his face, and he knows Harry sees this, because he rolls his eyes and bends to kiss Draco again, this time on the mouth.

He doesn’t say it out loud, thinks that maybe he never will, but he knows privately, way deep down inside his own mind, that he’ll never get used to being loved the way that Harry loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	6. soft weed smoking fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another birthday drabble for [loveglowsinthedark](https://l0vegl0wsinthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** gratuitous weed-smoking, fluff, gryffindors and slytherins getting along  
>  **Word Count:** ~1,600

The chair is definitely made for one person, but that hasn’t stopped Draco from making himself comfortable on Harry’s lap in an entitled manner reminiscent of Crookshanks. In fact Crookshanks, in Harry’s opinion, looks a bit annoyed at the stolen bit of real estate. He’s contented himself with Ron’s lap but he’s watching Draco with an almost human expression of contempt.

There’s a layer of smoke sitting stagnant at about head height, like a potent cloud, that Harry had noticed five minutes ago and can’t unsee now. Had they really smoked that much?

He looks around the room: at Seamus, who is speaking rapidly and with extravagant hand gestures to Blaise in an Irish accent so thick Harry can make out only one in five words; at Hermione, with one of the two circulating joints in hand, laughing with tears in her eyes at something Ginny’s just said; at Luna, holding the other and staring peacefully off into space, completely unaware of Pansy sneaking glances at her. Yes, perhaps they _had_ smoked that much. Goyle looks utterly blazed too, his eyes bloodshot and slitted, fingers positively caked with cheese dust from a bag of crisps. 

Bringing his focus back round to Draco on his lap — who is, from his position, engaged in conversation with Dean — Harry gives a great yawn and shifts a bit, trying to relieve the slight tingling in his right leg. Draco readjusts himself without missing a beat, moving some of his weight around to Harry’s other thigh and continuing uninterrupted in his spiel about … well, Harry’s not sure, really. He thinks it’s something about some artist or another, Draco’s current obsession.

“Harry!” 

He turns, blinking, to see Hermione holding the joint towards him and shaking it. The ash falls off and lands on the carpet.

“Oh — oops,” she giggles. “Sorry. I said your name a million times. Here, take it, it’s yours.”

He leans over the arm of the chair to reach out as far as he can while being weighed down with Draco, stretching towards her on the sofa, and just manages to snag it with his fingertips. She pulls out her wand and cleans the ash, then turns back to Ginny.

Harry drops his head back and takes a hit, pulling the smoke into his lungs, holding it there, and then blowing it out towards the ceiling. He watches with fascination as it joins seamlessly with the larger cloud. He’s become completely neutralised to the smell of the weed but he keeps getting whiffs of Draco’s shampoo, a brand new one he keeps raving about that’s supposed to work all kinds of wonders on his scalp and hair follicles. All Harry really gives a shit about, though, is that Draco’s smelled like coconut lately, which he very much likes.

He lifts his head and takes another hit, but this time he brings his mouth close to Draco’s ear and blows the smoke into it, causing him to cringe away, startled, while Dean starts laughing.

“You’re so fucking annoying when you’re high,” says Draco, trying for scolding except that his eyes are bright and he can’t quite keep a smile off his face. “Give me that.” He snatches the joint from Harry and brings it to his lips, letting the smoke drift out through his nose and looking like the world’s loveliest and smallest dragon. He must see the way Harry’s looking at him because after he takes his second hit he leans down with a coy grin and Harry meets him halfway in a kiss so Draco can breathe the smoke into his mouth. His tongue follows shortly after and Harry loves the way he can taste the weed on it, earthy and bittersweet. 

He loses himself in it quickly, his hazy, sluggish brain happily forgetting the presence of eight or nine of their friends around them as he drinks his fill. All that’s real or matters is the warm, solid weight of Draco in his lap, the smell of weed and coconut, his soft lips and wet tongue and the gentle fingers on his jaw, stroking lightly. His own hand, the one not draped behind Draco’s back, finds his hip and snakes beneath his shirt, just enough to graze warm skin. Draco smiles against his mouth and hums into the kiss before pulling away and trailing his lips towards Harry’s ear.

“I’d settle down if I were you,” he says softly, his breath tickling Harry’s neck. It’s only then that Harry realises he’s got a semi that’s beginning to dig into Draco’s arse and he lets out a quiet laugh. Just to be cheeky, he brings his lips to Draco’s jaw and kisses down his neck, grinning when he feels Draco shiver.

“But I’m enjoying myself so much,” he whispers, hand sliding from Draco’s hip to his lap, where he squeezes over his half-hard cock, causing him to squirm and gasp in surprise. He grabs Harry’s hand and pulls it away with pink cheeks while Harry laughs against his neck.

“Oi, d’you two fucking mind!” comes Dean’s voice, and Harry looks up to see him watching them with raised eyebrows.

“You don’t have to watch,” Harry tells him, ripping his hand out of Draco’s grip to squeeze his thigh this time, delighted by the squawk of indignation.

“Draco’s still holding the joint, you pillock,” says Dean. “And he’s about to singe your arm with it.”

“I’m not about to singe _anybody_ , you troglodyte,” Draco says, whipping round to glare at him. “Not all of us are bumbling Gryffindor barbarians born without a trace of elegance in our blood —”

“Ow!” Harry yells, snatching his arm from around Draco’s back when something scalding hot touches his skin. Dean descends into howls of laughter while Draco takes Harry’s arm and starts apologising profusely. He goes as far as chucking the joint at Dean, whose laughter subsides as it lands in his lap and he jumps out of his chair before it can burn him. Harry can see it beginning to burn a hole in the carpet.

This is not by any means the first time this carpet has seen a lit joint. Hermione has fixed most of the damage but here and there are obvious reminders, which Harry actually quite likes. There is, he thinks, such a thing as too much cleanliness and perfection. If a burn mark on his carpet is a memory of a good time, he can’t see what’s so bad about it.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Draco coos, lifting his arm and pressing a soft kiss to the tiny burn mark.

“You did that on purpose,” says Harry, affecting a deep, childish frown that makes Draco laugh. He cups Harry’s cheeks and kisses his lips once, twice, three times, then his cheek, before pulling away.

“Better?”

“Oh, I’ll need more than that if you wanna make up for burning me,” Harry tells him, cheeky grin back in place. Draco rolls his eyes and Harry hears both Dean and Ron making retching noises while Seamus wolf-whistles.

“Who has the other joint?” Dean asks as he drops the roach into an ashtray on the coffee table. “Someone needs to roll a new one.”

“Harry, you do it,” says Pansy. “Blaise did the last two and they were terrible.”

“What the fuck?” Blaise says, glaring at her. “They were fucking decent, what’re you on about?”

“Harry?” Pansy presses, ignoring him. “Will you? Yours are the best.”

“That’s because he’s good with his hands,” Draco says, bringing his lips to Harry’s cheek again where Harry can feel him grinning.

“You have to get off my lap then,” says Harry, prompting a heavy pout from Draco that makes him look twelve.

“Just do it _on_ my lap, it’s not that hard.”

Harry huffs out a breath but agrees; he likes Draco’s warm weight and doesn’t really care if it’s a little more difficult to do, but mostly it’s because in spite of the burn he’s still half-hard and doesn’t necessarily need everyone seeing it. Dean brings over the flat tray with a mirrored base that Harry likes to use for this purpose and sets it down on Draco’s lap.

Draco makes a game of kissing his neck while he’s trying to roll the joints, causing him to fumble several times to the general chagrin of the room at large.

When he’s finished, Dean removes the tray and all the scattered, ground-up weed on its surface and takes the joints, lighting them both and handing one off to Seamus so the rounds can begin again. Harry wonders vaguely how long it would take for the whole room to fill with smoke and eventually suffocate them.

Draco’s nuzzling his cheek now and Harry slips his arm back around him.

“We should kick everyone out after they finish these ones,” he hums into Harry’s ear. “I’m very anxious to make up for burning your poor arm.”

Harry laughs and squeezes his hip playfully, but he also feels his cock twitch with interest. Their friends will come again, plenty of times; more important is the very baked, very randy Draco in his lap whose mouth looks more inviting by the minute.

“Yeah, all right,” he agrees. 

“Good,” Draco says and kisses his cheek once again. His touchy-feeliness is one of Harry’s very favourite things about Draco when he smokes. It’s like he can’t help it. “I’m gonna get some lemonade actually, do you want anything, love?”

“I’m okay,” says Harry. “Don’t be long.”

With another kiss — on his mouth this time — Draco stands up and Harry takes the opportunity to swat his arse before he walks away. Draco yelps and blushes and smacks his arm but he’s smiling, and it makes Harry’s heart even lighter than the weed does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	7. utterly yours prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: herbology professor draco (prequel to [utterly yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572972))
> 
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** herbology professor draco, auror harry, fluff  
>  **Word Count:** ~1,400

It’s been almost two years since he’s visited Hogwarts. He doesn’t generally let it go that long — at least once or twice every year Harry usually makes a point of it, to see McGonagall and Flitwick and Dumbledore’s portrait, to walk the corridors and engorge himself on the familiarities, to find an inner peace, like he’s visiting a spiritual temple rather than his old school. Well, it certainly feels spiritual to him, anyway.

The reason he’s here now, though, isn’t a personal visit but rather a last resort. He’s been through the Ministry’s substantial library what feels like a thousand times looking for information pertaining to a case, but he’s found nothing. It had been Hermione to suggest trying the Hogwarts library, which had been hysterical until he realised it wasn’t a bad idea.

And he’ll get there eventually — to the library. But it’s been two years and as soon as Harry sets foot inside he’s overcome with a strong desire to wander around first. McGonagall, who had personally escorted him from the gates to the front doors, leaves him with a last “Good to see you, Potter” before hurrying away to a meeting. 

An hour later he’s thoroughly made his way through most of the castle and gone out to see the pitch, thinking of stopping by the greenhouses before he goes to the library to get down to business. 

As he nears them a bell goes off inside the castle signalling the end of the lesson and he sees a large group of mixed Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors coming out of greenhouse three. He’d never been terribly close to Professor Sprout but he thinks he may as well say hello while he’s here. 

The kids stare at him unashamedly as they pass but no one engages him, for which he’s grateful. When they’re all heading back up towards the castle he slips inside the greenhouse, immediately assaulted by the distinct, earthy smell he associates with Herbology, everything taking on a greenish-gold hue he finds extremely pleasant.

He moves through the greenhouse slowly, careful not to touch anything even as he admires a few large flowers in a shade of impossibly bright blue and something that looks like a cactus except that it’s swaying ominously.

He finally sees a head as he’s nearing the back, partially obscured behind a tangle of leaves. Confusion grips him instantly; he’s got no idea who it is, just that it’s definitely not dumpy little Professor Sprout. The white blond hair — turned golden in the sunlight streaming in through the glass — looks awfully familiar, but it _can’t_ be —

But it is. Malfoy turns a little, just enough so Harry can see part of his face, and when Harry catches sight of a smudge of dirt on his cheek he suddenly can’t look away from it.

It’s the most un-Malfoy thing he can imagine, that bit of dirt. He’s wearing gloves but Harry can see some dirt on his elbow too, just below where he has his sleeves rolled up.

His stomach does a weird flip. Weird not because it’s unfamiliar — he _knows_ what it is — but because it’s _really_ not supposed to be looking at Malfoy that gives him that feeling.

Malfoy, not Professor Sprout, is packing dirt into a pot. He lifts his hand and uses the back of his wrist to wipe away a few glistening beads of sweat on his forehead, which is creased with concentration. There’s a clump of hair hanging in front of his eyes that he seems not to notice.

Then he picks up the pot, turns towards Harry, and finally notices him. 

He sees shock on Malfoy’s face and only half a second before he drops the pot Harry realises what’s about to happen, darting forwards to catch it before it can explode on the ground.

“What the fuck!” Malfoy exclaims, stumbling back a step, clearly disorientated. Harry lets out a breath of relief and sets the pot on the nearest workstation. “Jesus — Potter — what the _fuck_ are you doing here!”

There is, Harry notices, a soft blush colouring Malfoy’s cheeks and nose. It’s very endearing.

“I’m really sorry, Malfoy,” he says, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice only semi-successfully. Malfoy scowls, and that’s endearing too. It’s less venomous than he remembers it being in school. Plus it’s hard to take him too seriously with that bit of dirt on his face and when Harry had just witnessed him elbow-deep in soil. God, he looks _soft_. He’d never known Malfoy could be this soft. “I had no idea — I was coming to see Sprout, you’re not …?”

He doesn’t actually want to say the words because the idea is so ludicrous he’s afraid it’ll sound stupid and Malfoy will laugh at him. But he’s here, isn’t he? Covered in dirt, clearly knowledgeable, and Harry had just seen a class coming out of the greenhouse.

“Sprout retired end of last year,” says Malfoy. He’s finally recovered from the shock and is pulling his gloves off now, setting them down next to where Harry had put the pot after snatching it out of the air. He gives Harry a searching look that’s difficult to read.

“So you’re …?” He still can’t say it.

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. Harry can finally see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“The new Herbology professor,” Malfoy says, finishing the sentence for him. “Yes. You can pick your jaw up off the floor now, Potter, you look more like a vapid tree frog than ever.”

“I just … I didn’t realise you even liked Herbology.”

“Well that’s weird,” says Malfoy, turning now to the large basin behind him with a tap over it. He turns it on and runs his hands under the water, sloshing it up his arms to get rid of the dirt covering them. The smudge on his face remains, though. “I thought I made it very clear how much I loved Herbology all those times we hung out in school.”

Taking Malfoy’s (unnecessarily sarcastic) point, he leans back against the workstation with the pot on it and crosses his arms. He watches Malfoy finish washing and when he shuts it off, he turns back towards Harry, drying them on a very clean and soft-looking towel. 

“I’m surprised McGonagall didn’t tell me she’d hired you.”

“What exactly are you doing here, Potter?” he says again, ignoring Harry’s last statement.

“Library,” he says mildly. “Hitting dead-ends at the Ministry one so I thought I’d give it a shot here.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, which only makes Harry grin. The attitude, far from irritating him as it once had, serves only to amuse him now. Maybe it’s the backdrop of the greenhouse, or the way his hair looks golden in the filtered sunlight, or that fucking dirt on his face.

“Dangerous life as an Auror, is it?”

Harry shrugs, grinning cheekily. “Sometimes.”

He swears he sees Malfoy’s mouth twitch, but he does such a good job covering it up it might have been Harry’s imagination.

There’s silence for a beat; the reality of the years that have passed between _then_ and _now_ feels almost like a tangible presence between them, making the air thick and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the humidity.

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow.

“You should probably be getting to the library if that’s what you’re here for,” he says finally.

Harry smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.” And then, not really sure where he’s getting the bollocks, “D’you wanna get a drink with me tonight at the Three Broomsticks?”

Malfoy blinks at him. “What?” he says blankly

“Well?” Harry presses. “Do you?”

“I —” Malfoy blinks again. His utter bewilderment is as endearing as everything else. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, it’d be good to catch up.” Among other things, although he doesn’t mention that. “What d’you say?”

Malfoy stares at him another moment, looking almost suspicious, before finally nodding.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll meet you there round six.”

“Great.” Harry pushes off the workstation. He can’t help it any longer — he reaches out and uses his thumb to brush away the dirt on Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy freezes at the touch and Harry sees him swallow. “You missed a spot,” he says by way of explanation, grinning again and pulling back. “See you at six, then.”

“Yeah,” says Malfoy in a distinctly breathless voice. “See you, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	8. petrichor prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: the tattoo scene mentioned in [petrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461883)
> 
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** fluff, period.  
>  **Word Count:** ~950

Paris is stupid, only because it’s a cliché. 

The only reason it’s an _endearing_ cliché is that Harry takes everything Draco’s ever known to be cheesy and boring about relationships and manages to effortlessly subvert them. 

He doesn’t take Draco out to dinner – he forces him to go on walks where they hold hands and talk and completely arbitrarily find somewhere to eat when they feel like it, usually a dumb, cosy little diner where they can share a bench and Harry kisses him with strawberry milkshake on his tongue.

He does things like bringing Draco tea in bed in the mornings, not because he’s trying to be nice or chivalrous or anything like that – he just _does_ it, because thinking about other people is second nature to him. He’d never needed telling the way Draco took it: he’d simply picked up on it.

He doesn’t give Draco flowers either, the way every single one of his exes had. The gifts he gets him are not premeditated and serve no ulterior motive; they’re things he sees and buys because he thinks Draco will like them.

And this weekend, he’d talked Draco into staying at a modest hotel in Paris which they still haven’t gotten to use, since they’ve been out wandering the city all day.

They’ve been together officially for almost seven months. Draco is so in love with him that it often manifests itself viscerally as an ache in his chest whenever he looks at him.

Sometimes it’s difficult to express the enormity of it – he struggles to get it across to Harry, the depth of what he’s feeling, but _I love you_ doesn’t feel good enough and he’s begun to wonder if perhaps there simply aren’t the right words.

Symbols, though. Those are very powerful. It’s what stops him as they walk past a tattoo parlour.

“What?” Harry asks, frowning at him. “What is it?”

“Just looking,” he says. He can see someone through the glass talking to a woman behind the counter, but it appears otherwise empty. His stomach lurches, because suddenly ideas are occurring to him, and he knows it’s stupid but _really_ , he’s so high on Paris and Harry and being in love that he’s actually thinking about it.

“I’ve thought about getting one,” says Harry. “A couple, really.”

“Why haven’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “Not sure. S’pose I just never got around to it. What about you?”

Draco purses his lips and looks into the small shop again. He smiles to himself.

*

“You said it feels like _what_ , again?”

“Pinching,” says the woman with a device in her hand Harry had called a ‘tattoo gun,’ which sounds unnecessarily aggressive, in his opinion. “Just sort of a, erm … I dunno, a pinching sensation. Dunno how else to describe it. Sure you like the position?”

She’s holding a mirror up so Draco can see behind his ear where she’d pressed a piece of paper to his skin. What it had left behind was a sort of non-permanent tattoo as she’d explained it, which she would go over with her ‘gun’. It’s a very simple line tattoo of a stag, something she’d drawn up and perfected for him in fifteen minutes with enviable skill. It’s nothing more than a few looping lines, but it’s immediately recognisable for what it is and very beautiful.

His arms break out in goosebumps when he thinks about having it inked onto his skin forever.

“You want me to hold your hand?” Harry asks, only half-teasing.

“Shut up. No.”

But as soon as the needle touches his skin, he’s reaching out for him.

*

He’s supposed to leave the cover on for another hour but Harry, impatient, convinces him to take it off so he can see.

They’re both a little drunk off a big bottle of pinot grigio. He removes the cloth from behind Draco’s ear and he says nothing, but Draco feels his thumb swipe across the skin just below it, where it’s sensitive.

“Say something,” says Draco. “Is it awful?”

“No,” Harry breathes. “No, it’s perfect. I can’t believe you really did it.”

He slides his arms around Draco’s waist and kisses him where his thumb had been a moment ago. It stings a little, because his lips brush the tattoo slightly.

“I’ll have to Glamour it, you know,” says Draco. He’s frowning a little in thought, although it’s hard to be rational when his blood is heavy with alcohol and he keeps realising anew that he’s permanently stamped with a reminder of this moment in time. This moment when the only thing that truly feels important is making sure he never forgets how good this is – how deep and permeating and all-consuming his feelings are.

“What? _Why_?”

“It’s just for me,” Draco tells him. “And you.”

Harry laughs softly and then his face is buried in the side of Draco’s neck.

“Are you going to regret it tomorrow morning?”

He’s been wondering the same thing.

“Maybe,” he says truthfully. “But I don’t care. It’s a reminder for future me.”

“And what exactly does future you need reminding about?”

He turns finally in Harry’s arms and meets his eyes. His pupils are dilated from the alcohol, and he’s close enough that Draco can see the ring of even deeper green around the outside of the irises.

“Not to murder you in your sleep every time you steal the covers,” Draco says. “Since I quite like you, actually.”

“ _Do_ you?”

“Don’t go spreading it around, though, Potter. It’s very confidential.”

Harry laughs. The sound make Draco’s heart swell.

“Well I love you,” says Harry. He says it a lot – in fact, he seems to _like_ saying it. “And I love the tattoo.”

“I love you too,” Draco says softly.

It doesn’t feel like enough, the words.

The tattoo helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	9. short draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: smol!draco
> 
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** excessively short draco, excessively tall harry, fluff, confident harry, flustered draco, bickering  
>  **Word Count:** ~1,600

There was supposed to be a stool. Not that it was dignified to _use_ it, but Draco always made sure he was the only one in the supply cupboard when that became necessary. And that only if he hadn’t demanded Blaise go get the ingredients himself.

Somebody had moved it, though, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he’d manage to reach the top shelf without the boost. And of course his wand was back at the table, because why the hell should he have needed it to get some goddamned ingredients from the closet? It would be mortifying to go back out there, however, and have to tell Blaise he couldn’t reach the bloodroot.

He clenched his jaw and looked up at the shelf. It was perhaps seven feet up, well out of Draco’s reach, and yet he stubbornly lifted onto his toes to give it a try anyway. Pointless, of course – his fingers merely brushed the edge, picking up a layer of dust in the process. He scowled and dropped back down, and he hadn’t even turned back around yet when from behind him someone said, “Need some help, Malfoy?”

It was a deep voice and all too familiar, filling him simultaneously with horror (at being caught by Potter) and a very keen sense of exhilaration, one which generally made itself known when Golden Boy was close by.

“I _beg_ your pardon?” he said waspishly. But there was a look on Potter’s face, a _smirk_ , even … it was wholly out of place there and made Draco feel, if possible, even smaller than his already insubstantial height.

“I asked if you needed _help_?” said Potter, eyebrows raised in such a way that – probably intentionally – made Draco feel as if he’d just overreacted.

“No,” he said. For emphasis, he snatched a vial of dragon’s blood from a lower shelf. “I don’t need _help._ ”

“ _Okay_ ,” Potter half-laughed, drawing the word out mockingly. “So I imagined you reaching for the bloodroot on the top shelf, then?”

“I suppose so,” said Draco airily. “Time to get your big fat head checked, Potter.”

Stubbornly clutching the dragon’s blood, Draco tried to manoeuvre his way around Potter and out of the cupboard, only to have his path blocked. He had to close his eyes and pull in a deep, steadying breath in order to calm himself. This was not only humiliating, but threw into sharp relief the difference that time had made of Golden Boy. Once, when they were eleven and twelve years old, Draco could have shoved his way past Potter.

This was very much not the case anymore.

It was bad enough Draco hadn’t grown any taller than most of the girls in their year, but for Potter to have reached nearly six feet was just absolutely indecent. And not only that, but his shoulders were a hell of a lot broader than they had any right to be.

Potter was grinning, the heathen, and that on top of the fact that in this small space Draco was being bombarded with the smell of his aftershave left him feeling short of breath and with the first stirrings of arousal.

Beyond caring if it was childish, Draco tried to inconspicuously hold his breath when Potter reached over him and grabbed the bloodroot with no trouble at all. His jaw was locked furiously tight, but he must have looked more flustered than irritated because as soon as Potter looked down at him he chuckled.

“Relax, Malfoy,” he said. He plucked the dragon’s blood from Draco’s hand, his ungodly green eyes stuck on Draco’s as he set it back on its shelf. In spite of his scowling, Draco was entirely prepared to take the bloodroot from Potter, which made it ten steps beyond mortifying when he actually _reached out for it_ , only to have Potter place it on a shelf just above Draco’s head. Draco’s mouth fell open, unbridled shock robbing him of his decorum.

Potter leaned forward, and with his hand on that upper shelf, Draco felt effectively trapped beneath him. He was suddenly close enough that his warm breath drifted maddening across Draco’s cheek, and with a hard swallow and a lot of internal bracing, he turned his head just enough to meet Potter’s eyes. He wondered vaguely what Potter would do if he knew Draco’s cock was now stiff and aching.

For one dizzying moment, Draco thought Potter was going to kiss him. His lips tingled with the anticipation of it, his stomach clenched, his cock twitched, and his traitorous eyes even dipped to glance at Potter’s mouth. But in the very next second, with his lips slightly parted, he saw Potter starting to grin, and an embarrassed flush spread over his whole body.

“Noted,” said Potter, chuckling softly, and pulled away. Draco’s head spun as the reality of what had just happened sank in. “You, uh, should be able to reach the bloodroot now.” He winked – _winked_ – and with a crooked grin grabbed whatever the hell he had come in here for in the first place and left.

Draco, heart pounding, waited until he’d caught his breath to reach up and grab the bloodroot from where Potter had placed it on a shelf he could reach.

He wondered rather dazedly how he was ever going to be able to face Potter again.

*

He was in a terrible mood the rest of the week. To have been so easily manipulated by _Potter_ , of all people. It was unheard of, and worst of all, now Potter had at least an inkling of Draco’s stupid little crush.

And so maybe he was a little ruder to Potter than usual when he was forced to interact with him, but really, could he be blamed? It was Potter’s own fault.

It was _also_ Potter’s fault that they wound up in detention Friday. He might have deliberately sabotaged Potter’s project, but Potter had started the fight.

They spent a majority of their detention cleaning up the greenhouse in silence, Draco loudly making snide comments now and then and getting a little thrill every time he saw Potter’s jaw muscles twitch. He may not have wanted to be here, but at least he knew he was keeping Potter from one of the Friday evening Quidditch matches the students had put together this year.

“You’re doing this wrong,” Draco said, grabbing a pot from him and mending the cracked ceramic the right way. “We’ll be here all night because of you, idiot.”

“We’re here in the first place because _you_ poured acid all over my shrivelfigs, Malfoy,” he snapped. Draco’s lower belly flared briefly with heat. Potter was dangerously good-looking when he got pissed.

“Yes, and _you_ , like the barbarian you are, decided to try and hex me.”

“I _did_ hex you,” Potter said. He snatched the pot back from Draco and set it aside, making room for him to be able to back Draco up against one of the workbenches. Draco looked up at him and felt his veins shiver with anticipation of … _something_. “It’s _you_ who tried to hex me and smashed about a hundred planters instead.”

“You have a terrible memory,” said Draco, but his voice was unsteady and Potter wasn’t buying it.

“I have a fantastic memory.” Potter raised an eyebrow, and then both hands were on the bench behind Draco, trapping him between them. “For instance, I remember that you looked almost exactly the way you do now last week when you thought I was going to kiss you in the supply cupboard.”

Draco’s jaw fell open, his cheeks instantly filling with blood, and to make it worse, Potter was grinning now.

“I did _not_ think you were –”

“What, you’re gonna deny it?”

“There’s nothing to deny!” Draco shouted, and in a burst of frustration tried to stomp on Potter’s foot. He moved it out of the way easily, and when he leaned forward in the next moment, that shit-eating grin was still stuck on his face. Draco swallowed hard and determinedly kept his eyes on Potter’s.

“How can someone so _short_ ,” Potter said, putting biting emphasis on the _t_ , “be such a goddamned pain in the arse?”

“Look who’s talking,” Draco sneered. It was a brave attempt at fighting back considering his heart was throwing itself hysterically against the walls of his ribcage. “How can someone who struts around acting like he’s so _humble_ be such an arrogant _twat_?”

Potter _laughed_. Draco tried to hit him, but his wrist was caught in a tight grip before he’d moved it more than a couple inches.

“You’re so fucking annoying, Malfoy,” he said, and without even a hint of warning pressed forward and kissed him. Draco’s lips were open in surprise, leaving Potter to take advantage and slip his tongue languidly inside. It was a shock to his system, that warm, wet muscle delving around inside his mouth and rubbing against his own. By the time he relaxed enough to melt into the sensation, Potter was already pulling away, and his eyes were dancing with amusement.

“Boys!” Professor Sprout’s voice came from the greenhouse’s entrance, and while Draco instinctively reached out and shoved Potter away from him, Potter merely stumbled and caught himself with another laugh. She found them a moment later and nodded around at the work they’d done, seeming not to realise what she’d stumbled upon. “Good enough. You’re free to go. _Do_ try to behave yourselves next time, won’t you?”

She left, mumbling about eighteen-year-olds acting more mature than this. Potter turned to him, grinning like a lunatic with an agenda.

“Guess I’ll see you round, then, Malfoy,” he said. With a last infuriating look, he followed after Sprout, probably to try and catch the last of the Quidditch match.

Draco lifted his fingers to his lips, still tingling with the taste of Potter.

Another detention seemed prudent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	10. harry's magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: A magically powerful Harry not noticing that his magic does things to make Draco happy. This can be pre-relationship or established relationship. Like it starts of with his tea being exactly as he likes and always the right temperature. Then evolves to rooms changing colour or weather changing or people being unable to invade Draco’s personal space due to an invisible barrier or something ridiculous. Btw Draco doesn’t notice as well.
> 
> **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** massive fluff, magically powerful harry, friends to lovers, hermione pov  
>  **Word Count:** ~2,000

“Harry,  _ you _ do it.  _ Please _ .”

“No.”

“Please!”

“We’re fucking watching something, Draco!”

“So just pause it!”

Harry grabs the pillow on his lap and slams it onto the sofa next to him. Hermione can see dust rise in its wake. He pauses the telly. 

“Are you doing it?” Draco asks hopefully. Harry scowls at him. 

“Well you won’t shut up until I do, will you?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen and Draco sits there looking smug.

“It’s kind of sick how you get off on bossing him around,” says Ron, his tone one of simple observation. His fingers are idly playing with Hermione’s hair, but she doesn’t think he notices he’s doing it. 

“If I’m not mean to him a few times a week I break out in a rash, Weasley,” Draco says blithely. “Besides, he makes it  _ perfectly _ . I don’t know how he does it, it’s always  _ exactly _ the right temperature and sweetness and all that. I s’pose his years as a house-elf for those Muggles gave him plenty of time to perfect the art.”

“You’re a twat,” says Ron. “And my mum makes tea better than him.”

“Well you’re just a pitiful little mummy’s boy, aren’t you, Weasley? We can hardly trust your opinion.”

“Hark who the hell’s talking,” Ron scoffs. “Least I’m not twenty-three and still calling my mum ‘mummy’ like the world’s biggest bloody ponce.”

Draco splutters but before he can retort Harry’s coming back into the room hovering four cups of tea that float placidly to each of them. Draco looks exactly like a satisfied cat as he takes his and Harry drops back down onto the sofa next to him. Not  _ too _ close, but certainly not too far, either.

“Literally exquisite,” Draco declares after he’s taken a sip. Ron rolls his eyes.

“It’s just  _ tea _ , Draco,” says Harry, and he grabs for the remote to turn the film back on. “You’re such a demanding little brat. Merlin’s fucking tits.”

But Draco looks happy and Harry looks suspiciously content as well. Ron turns to her and makes a silent gagging face. Hermione snorts and puts a finger to her lips. They’ve decided not to say anything yet.

*

“Wasn’t this place a lot …  _ uglier _ last time?”

“What?” Harry says absently. He’s not listening — he’s got all his attention zeroed in on a stack of parchment he’s holding. They’d only barely dragged him along to lunch; earlier the captain of the English National Team had apparently owled him a great number of brand-new Quidditch plays and required Harry’s extensive thoughts and notes before their next practise, which was tomorrow morning. 

“ _ Uglier _ ,” Draco says emphatically, and Ron mutters something she doesn’t catch. “Remember? The walls were that tragic egg-yolk colour.” He shivers. Hermione thinks it might have been an honest-to-god shiver of revulsion. She also thinks she knows what’s happened, even though the extent of it surprises her.

“Maybe someone heard you whingeing and changed it,” Ron apparently can’t stop himself from saying with a snigger. Hermione elbows him hard and he shoots her a glare, mouthing,  _ he doesn’t know! _

Harry would usually be the one to take the lead and get them a table when all four of them go out to eat together but today he’s too wrapped up in his Quidditch plays, so Ron steps forward and does it, which makes Hermione’s chest flutter pleasantly. He’d blush down to his bones if she ever said it aloud but he’s quite capable of being a leader in Harry’s absences. 

“Whatever happened,” says Draco pointedly as they’re led to their table, “it’s a great bloody blessing, I was genuinely unsure I’d have the mental fortitude to survive another assault like that on my delicate senses. And, I mean,  _ this _ —” he gestures to the walls, which are now an admittedly pleasing dark teal above a white trim “— is stunning. It’s my favourite colour.”

“Is it? So weird they picked your favourite colour completely by coincidence,” Ron says, and Hermione elbows him again. Draco notices nothing and neither does Harry, although he does finally set the plays aside once they’re seated at the table.

“Are you complaining about the wall colour again?” he asks drily. They would both be extremely displeased to know they sound like an old married couple. Draco snatches haughtily at the paper napkin on the table and unfolds it to place over his lap. The first time he’d ever done this at a regular, decidedly  _ not _ upscale restaurant Ron had taken it upon himself to spend the entire meal adopting a posh accent to match Draco’s and saying things to the waiter like “Don’t you have  _ crystal _ ?” while holding up a glass cup full of Pepsi and then commenting “These aren’t  _ real _ silver, you know” after making a show of inspecting the titanium utensils. 

“I can complain about hideous design choices if I want to,” Draco tells Harry with his nose in the air. “Thankfully they’ve rectified it this time.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Hermione sees two employees talking, one of them gesturing at the wall with utter bewilderment. She doesn’t point it out.

*

“Twelve o’clock,” says Ron, nodding past Draco’s shoulder. “Some bloke staring you down hard, Malfoy.”

Draco looks excitedly behind him, but what Hermione takes more notice of is the way Harry’s face falls a little. She can’t help but wonder if he even realises it’s happened. She’s almost certain he’s aware of his feelings for Draco even though he still hasn’t said anything to her (and she’s been waiting  _ months  _ now, the effort of holding her tongue growing only more difficult by the day, and she knows Ron’s always seconds away from shouting at him) but she doesn’t think he knows how obvious he is. Draco doesn’t seem to know either, but she thinks that’s because Draco feels exactly the same way. She’d have called them morons, but she remembers too well how long it had taken her and Ron.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” Draco hisses, turning back around with a scowl that makes Ron laugh and Harry perk up again a little bit. “He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks.”

“Now, now,” says Ron, “mustn’t judge books by their greasy covers.”

“Then  _ you  _ go shag him if you think he’s so fit.”

“Maybe I will,” Ron says airily, as if he really is considering it, and Hermione can’t help chuckling and kissing his cheek. Then his expression changes to one of wicked amusement, which makes all of them look round to see the bloke coming their way. Hermione glances at Harry to find that — oh yes, he looks flustered and vaguely upset.

“Hullo,” says the greasy bloke to Draco as he comes up beside him at their table. He’s really not terrible-looking, but if she’s learned anything about Draco in the last couple years it’s that his standards amount to models and Harry Potter, so this man has almost no chance.

“Hello,” Draco drawls, reminding her fiercely of his younger self at Hogwarts. “I’m not interested.”

“Right little narcissistic bugger, aren’t you?” the man says. And now, finally, he’s begun to look as revolting to Hermione as he’d done initially to Draco — a repellent personality can do that. “Maybe I just wanted to come and have a chat.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at any of the rest of us?” Ron asks, sounding halfway between amused still and a little put off.

“Can you leave, please?” Draco interjects, cringing away from the man encroaching slowly on his personal space. And suddenly, as he looks on the verge of antagonising Draco further, he shifts his feet and slips, landing right on his bum with a yell of surprise. All four of them get to their feet to see, but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid or even slimy food for him to have tripped on.

“The fuck ...?” the man says, getting back to his feet. But when he moved towards Draco, he only slips again, on absolutely nothing at all. Something clicks and Hermione looks at Harry: he seems as confused as anyone else (if obviously pleased).

She looks at Ron then, who catches her eye and lifts his brows like he’s thinking the same thing.

Draco’s suitor gets up once more and steadies himself, looking a bit dazed. Some deep animal instinct seems to tell him to stop trying, and with a wary glance at Draco he finally leaves.

“Well that was a bit of a fucking scene,” says Harry. Draco, coming out of his own startled daze, laughs.

“Yeah,” Ron says sarcastically, “wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

*

“I really thought it was going to rain,” Draco mopes where he’s standing at the window. It’s grey outside but it definitely doesn’t look like rain and Draco appears so upset about it that Hermione actually feels badly, even though she’s quite glad for the clear weather. 

“Just shut the curtains,” Ron suggests from his place on the floor. He’s sorting through Harry’s collection of VHS tapes, trying to decide on a good Halloween movie. Not that he’s ever seen any of them, and Hermione suspects he’ll end up choosing whichever cover he likes best.

“It’s not the same!” Draco wails. “The thunder and lightning is all part of it, you uncultured pillock! The atmosphere is all wrong.”

“It’ll be just as good when we shut off all the lights and draw the curtains,” she assures him, but it doesn’t remove the look of disappointment from his face. It’s a pouty sort of thing that echoes the brattiness of his youth; she imagines a five-or-six-year-old Draco giving his parents similar looks when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

At that moment the front door opens and Harry walks in carrying two grocery bags, one of which contains alcohol, which Hermione can tell by the way the plastic is bulging around the cans.

“The fuck are you all doing here?” he says by way of greeting.

“You said eight o’clock, fuckhead,” Ron tells him without looking up. “But it’s fine, I’ve had time to pick a film and Malfoy’s had time to moan about the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“I wanted a storm!”

At that exact moment, a flash of lightning lights up the sky behind Harry where he hasn’t even closed the door yet. Seconds later a downpour begins, and then there’s a rolling crash of thunder.

Hermione’s eyes widen and once more she finds Ron’s gaze, who looks about as shocked as she feels. Draco, meanwhile, has his hands over his mouth and looks like a child on Christmas morning.

For the first time since his magic had begun picking up on Draco’s wishes and granting them of seemingly its own accord, Hermione sees Harry look suspicious. He peers behind him at the storm suddenly raging outside his house before slowly closing the door. When he turns back he looks directly at Hermione, who looks away quickly.

They set up the food Harry had gotten — all kinds of Halloween-themed sweets — and once everyone has their drinks (“Make mine,” Draco tells Harry, “you do it best”) and is comfortable on the two sofas in the room (Harry and Draco are, as usual, as close to each other as they can get without actually touching) they start the movie:  _ The Thing _ , which Harry swears is one of the greatest horror films of all time.

Funny thing is, an hour and a half into it she looks over and, with a jolt, realises the two of them are kissing half-covered beneath a blanket. She elbows Ron, who positively beams when he notices.

“Fucking  _ finally _ , dear sweet Merlin,” he whispers. “I nearly hit him upside the head when he made it rain, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shh!” Hermione hisses, though she’s smiling. “They’ll hear you. We’ll rag him about it tomorrow.”

A soft sound of laughter comes from the other sofa that Hermione identifies as Draco’s, and when she risks another peek after a moment she sees Harry smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	11. a broomstick in the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Cielia's incredible art than can be found [here!](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/post/633442354502811648/this-was-meant-to-be-sm-shorter-butu)
> 
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** slight mention of ptsd  
>  **Word Count:** ~350

When it begins to rain, Draco winds his arms more tightly about Harry’s waist and presses his cheek to his back, shielding himself from the sudden onslaught like tiny pin pricks all over his face and arms. He hasn’t flown in more than a year, not counting the Fiendfyre – and somehow he doesn’t like to count that. And though he’d felt nervous getting on behind Harry as they stood out on the pitch ten minutes ago, staring up at the goalposts fifty feet in the air which had, at some point, come to symbolise all the good of his childhood, he’d known he needed this.

Now, with his eyes closed and the heavy scent of Harry and rain and wet broomstick lulling him into a state of near-tranquility, he feels immortal. They are hovering together somewhere between heaven and earth, and he imagines he can feel all the pain and fear of his past washing away into insignificance under the elemental assault of water and wind.

When they slip, there is so little time between the moment of falling and Harry grabbing onto him that Draco hardly has a chance to be afraid: by the time his brain has caught up to his body (his heart is fluttering faster than fairy wings and his limbs feel like jelly) the danger has already passed.

Not that he believes he was in any real danger in the first place.

He wraps his arms around Harry’s torso and clings as Harry reaches for his broom with his other hand, and he’s definitely laughing. After they’ve both clambered back on, Harry’s hand covers Draco’s where he’s wrapped them around his waist again and he twists as much as he can, just enough so Draco gets the hint and indulges him in a breathy, wet kiss that tastes like Harry’s mouth and the sky.

“Sorry,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yes,” says Draco, pressing another kiss to Harry’s shoulder, over his damp shirt. He tightens his arms. “Perfect.”

“I’d never let you fall.”

“I know,” says Draco. And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


	12. draco's halloween choker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Halloween 2020 👻🎃
> 
>  **Rating:** E  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** slight choking kink, handjobs, neck fetish, draco in makeup and jewelry  
>  **Word Count:** ~1,300

Draco, fixing a dangling, glittering black spider to his ear, takes one look at the telly and rolls his eyes (which are decorated immaculately with winged liner). Harry, on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table, smirks.

“You’re not even dressed,” says Draco. He’s still wearing his sweats and a loose T-shirt (cropped, showing off his navel and the tantalising line of his hips leading below the trousers, which always makes Harry feel distinctly weak and useless and horny); the skimpy outfit is the last thing he’ll put on before they leave in a few hours. Harry isn’t usually the world’s biggest fan of clubs like the one they’re going to, but being that it’s Halloween and Draco’s dressing like some kind of sexy slutty witch looking to get fucked in a shadowy corner, he’s willing to make the sacrifice tonight.

“I, unlike you,” says Harry, “don’t need six hours to get ready.”

“Which is why I, unlike you,” Draco returns with a drawl, “am going to look incredible. Hope you won’t feel too sad when I go off with some hot vampire thirsting after my blood. And arse,” he adds, like an afterthought. Harry laughs, grabs Draco’s elbow, and tugs him down onto the sofa beside him. Draco lets out a soft, indignant squawk that for some reason makes Harry unreasonably hard.

“I’ll deal with my raging jealousy later,” he says.

Draco is also wearing a choker — a neat, black velvet circle around his pale throat — and this more than any other part of the costume is what Harry’s looking forward to. Draco doesn’t wear them often; it’s tragic at the same time that it’s exactly what it needs to be. As much as he would have liked to see that slim, inviting band around Draco’s throat every single day, he enjoys the thrill of it in these arbitrary bursts.

For now, he presses a delicate kiss just above it on the side of Draco’s neck and feels him shiver. The dangling spider earring caresses his cheek with its tiny metallic legs.

“We have to watch this last film,” he says. His lips move on Draco’s skin as he says it and his bottom lip brushes the velvet. His libido stirs, his cock twitching. “Make it an even thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one isn’t even, halfwit.”

Harry laughs and takes the velvet between his teeth, and he’s satisfied to feel Draco swallow and make a tiny, breathy, mewling noise in his throat.

“You know what I mean,” he says. He pulls away and touches his lips to Draco’s soft cheek. Draco pouts but the flush on his skin gives him away. “We’ve watched one every night this month. Can’t miss out on Halloween itself.”

“We can when we have a party to go to.”

“Nope.” He takes the remote and starts the movie, and with a snap turns off his Muggle electrics and lights the candles instead. They decorate surfaces around the room in strategic clusters, a gorgeously intimate aesthetic Draco designed carefully. “I saved one of my favourites for last. You’re not getting out of this, we don’t have to leave for hours.”

Draco pouts. He won’t admit it but he’s very affected by horror movies; usually while they’re watching his nails end up digging into Harry’s arm and then he conspicuously requires more cuddling later on when they’re going to sleep. For eleven months out of the year Harry takes mercy on him and gets his horror fix by watching them with Ron and Hermione, but October is different. It’s the third year in a row he’d put together a marathon for the two of them and yet again Draco had complied, even when it meant he hid under a blanket for the last half hour.

“Does ‘one of your favourites’ mean it’s especially horrific?”

“No,” Harry laughs, “it’s really not that scary, I promise. Just a bit gory. I mean, it’s kind of funny, actually.”

“Harry, you told me _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ was funny!”

“Well, it is!”

Draco huffs loudly but quits arguing. In his defence, Harry really does think Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a hilarious film, but he supposes he can see why Draco might not share that opinion seeing as it’s not _supposed_ to be a funny movie.

“This one is deliberately a comedy,” he assures him, as the familiar theme of _Re-Animator_ plays and the credits roll across neon diagrams. And, just to be cheeky: “Don’t be scared, kitten.”

Draco elbows him and Harry laughs again. 

He feels Draco relaxing incrementally beside him as the film progresses through the first fifteen and then twenty minutes and nothing too horrible has happened, and he even fancies Draco might be engaged. Usually Harry would love to see this, but right now he finds himself unable to stop thinking about the choker. It’s as Herbert West begins explaining the dead cat in his freezer that Harry gives into his libido and attaches his mouth to Draco’s neck again.

Draco, who really _had_ been absorbed in the film apparently, lets out a soft gasp that makes Harry painfully hard for him. He takes the choker between his teeth again and now Draco actually whines, shoving at Harry lightly.

“Will you stop, I’m actually enjoying this one.”

“Mm,” Harry hums against his throat, and he slides a hand over Draco’s thigh, squeezing. “I’m glad to hear it. Don’t mind me.”

He nips at Draco’s pulse point and Draco whines again.

“You do remember this film was _your_ idea?”

Instead of answering, Harry slides his hand over Draco’s cock, hard and leaking a wet spot against his sweats. He thumbs the head and feels Draco shudder against him, another delicate sound coming out of his throat. Harry runs his nose along the velvet, breathing hot against Draco’s skin.

“ _Harry_ ,” he whines.

“Yes, love?”

Draco doesn’t answer. His eyes have closed and his head is tipped back against the sofa, baring his decorated throat. Harry latches onto it and snakes his hand beneath Draco’s sweats to wrap a hand around his hard cock. Draco bucks into his grip and _whines_.

“You look so good in these,” Harry says, as his other hand creeps around to the back of Draco’s neck and tugs lightly at the choker, pulling it taut against his Adam’s apple. Draco’s hand, which is clutching Harry’s knee, clenches.

“You’re a fucking deviant,” Draco informs him. Harry laughs against his neck and tightens his grip, wandlessly adding lube to the equation and making his strokes longer, teasing him and drawing him helplessly towards the edge. He mouths wetly along the skin above and below the velvet, then noses it out of the way and presses his tongue to the warm skin. He tugs at the back again, more tightly this time, and that finally does it. Draco whimpers and then gasps and then comes all over Harry’s hand. Harry works him through it, moving his lips lazily along Draco’s flushed throat, ignoring his own aching arousal.

Finally, too sensitive, Draco pushes Harry’s hand away and throws an arm across his face, burning a hectic, vital red.

“My makeup is probably ruined,” he says after a minute. Harry snorts and rolls his eyes and pulls Draco’s arm away so he can kiss him properly.

“You’ve plenty of time to redo it to perfection.”

“What about you?” he asks, indicating the hard bulge in Harry’s jeans.

“I’m gonna fuck you about a million times later tonight, don’t worry about me.”

Draco scoffs but looks distinctly pleased.

“Fine. D’you mind if we finish this fucking film, then?”

“Does that mean you like it?”

“From what I’ve been allowed to actually _watch_ , yes.”

Harry grins. He grabs for his wand to spell them clean and then pulls Draco into his side, firmly of the opinion that Halloween is the superior holiday.


	13. nonsexual intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on my own self-prompt for nonsexual intimacy in 500 words
> 
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Tags/Content Warnings:** body worship (of a nonsexual variety)  
>  **Word Count:** 500

His fingertips pass delicate over the ridges of Draco’s teeth; only in this way can he feel the subtle irregularities, the misshapen bumps and valleys in all that unyielding enamel. He wonders if this is what it would feel like if he reached inside Draco’s body and touched his bones.

He presses down on Draco’s tongue, slimy and wet and firm over muscle: unlike his teeth, it yields easily. Coated with spit, he drags them over a slightly swollen lip, smears it across his chin and down his neck and watches it glisten against skin as white as a winter moon.

“You’re skin,” says Harry. He dips his wet fingers into the hollow of Draco’s clavicle. He trails them down his arm, over a slightly rough elbow where the skin is dry and flaking. He touches the skin under Draco’s shirt, stretched across his hip bones; over his abdomen, where the skin is decorated with old scars and adds texture. “Miles of it.”

“What else?” Draco asks. 

“Teeth,” says Harry. He touches them again, the canines which are a little too long, the molars with their subtle bumps and valleys. He counts them. “You’re thirty-two teeth.”

_ Do you like them?  _ Draco’s eyes ask. 

“I love them,” says Harry. He does. He slides his finger along Draco’s gums, across his lips. He touches his nose and says, “You’re a pointy nose.”

“You’re a wide nose,” Draco says. “What else am I?”

“Hair.” He touches Draco’s hair. It’s whiter than his skin and just long enough to reach his ears and curl over the cartilage. “You’re silver hair. Like a unicorn tail.”

“My wand has unicorn tail hair.”

“I know,” says Harry. Draco smiles sleepily. “Suits you.”

“Tell me more.”

“You’re feet,” Harry tells him. He bends Draco’s leg and lifts his foot, and he kisses the arch. He hasn’t examined many feet, but he thinks Draco’s must be the softest. Then he kisses the sharp ankle bone. “And skinny ankles.”

This time Draco laughs. “You are too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Draco says. “And knobby knees.”

“Knobby knees,” Harry echoes, grinning. “You’re clean fingernails.”

“You’re bitten fingernails,” says Draco. He skims his lips over Harry’s fingers, and then his palm. “And rough hands and dark skin.”

“You’re light skin,” says Harry. He lifts Draco’s arm, kisses the steadily fading mark that is as much a part of his body as his clean fingernails and pointy nose. “And inside you’re blood and guts and atoms.”

Draco smiles, as if Harry has just recited back to him a secret they share. As if he’s the only one who knows what’s inside Draco’s body, because he’s the only one who’s been allowed to look. 

“And you,” says Draco. Harry frowns. 

“Me?”

“You’re inside of me,” he says. “With the blood and guts and atoms.”

Harry almost smiles, because it  _ almost  _ sounds corny: then he realises it’s actually not corny at all, and he stares at Draco a long time.

“You’re inside me too,” he says finally. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at [lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com](https://lazywonderlvnd.tumblr.com/) ♡


End file.
